


Everybody Wants To

by homsantoft (tofsla)



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: 15 Days of FatT 2018, F/F, F/M, One Night Stands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-17 07:36:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13654437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofsla/pseuds/homsantoft
Summary: Aria Joie throws a party and has a damn good time. She also has a type.





	Everybody Wants To

**Author's Note:**

> 15 days of FatT day 1: Dance. This isn’t really the fic I was going to write a while back about Aria behind the scenes of the main CW narrative but it’s... I guess a fragment of it.

Here’s Aria Joie, dancing. Here’s a breathless laugh, the lift and swirl of her skirt as she spins on the ball of one foot. Her hair flicks around her in a neat whip-crack motion. Hard beats, a heavy pulse. A fluttering jumping melody over it in a major key, too aggressively triumphant to not carry the ghost of anxiety inside itself.

Watch me. I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive. 

A week ago, her heart stopped.

An arm that doesn’t feel like hers yet flashes chrome in the shifting lights, the place where it latches onto her warm skin raw, the mangled hand that doesn’t exist any more aching. 

Oh, this? Cool, right? A snap of the fingers and sparks fly, a nice little piece of artistry. Pose. Metal fingers to pursed lips. A wink and a smile. Camera flash. 

This is her party—her guest list, her music, her agenda. Who’s here, then? Kelly Forthright is a cute girl, giggling and clinging to Aria’s arm, and her mother is a union woman on the sly, unknown as yet to her bosses at Minerva—passed on a giddy version of her ideals to her kid. Ah, yeah, Kelly’s she’s a real fan too—real delight at a new song—an energy to her dancing that only Aria can match here. Giggles and flushes when Aria kisses her cheek, very nearly the corner of her mouth—though Aria’s eyes slide past her in that moment to meet Paisley’s where he lounges against the wall near the door. A late arrival in a relaxed suit, crumpled pack of cigarettes in his hand. 

A kiss on the mouth for him, lips parted by laughter—a contented sigh—a slow spreading heat—his hand, briefly, resting on the back of her head, a light familiar touch that sparks through her all the same. A dancing step and turn to place herself at his side, back to the wall, his lighter lifted from his own jacket to light a smoke for him. He’s allowing it—picking pockets isn’t really her game. Catches the lighter neatly when she tosses it back to him, watches her with an unreadable expression when she stretches, body arching, shoulder-blades planted firmly against concrete and arms stretched out in front of her.

Later they might fuck against a wall—this one after hours, another one if it’s more convenient. Quick and filthy and _fun._ No strings, regrettably— _Not a great idea in the business, Joie_. Or Paisley might get a call and turn smooth and serious and step outside—

That’s the one, tonight. But that’s OK. Equal chance it would’ve been Aria’s phone ringing, AuDy on the line, flat and artless, _We have a job. Come back._

This time, she gets to keep dancing—gets to stumble into a conversation or argument or impassioned speech—a woman with dark skin and eyes so pale it’s hard not to notice them leans in close to her on the dance floor—the scent of jasmine in the dip of her neck, something Aria hasn’t encountered since she ran through the beautifully curated gardens on Joypark. A laughing murmur into her ear. “What’s an idealist like you gonna do when things get tough, huh?”

A quick scan of her memory. Guests and guests of guests. Valencia, no surname. Probably an assassin. Great singing voice, smokey where Aria’s is clear—filling bars where Aria used to fill arenas. Great shoulders, too, it turns out—bare, just now, blue light drawing a sharp highlight along her collarbone. 

Aria turns her face to Valencia’s ear. Smiles against the shell of it, lips brushing skin. 

“Shoot something,” she says, and if her bravado is false she at least knows she’s _great_ at selling it.

“The bells are ringing, hmm?”

“Something like that.”

Valencia’s hand curls against Aria’s arm. “You’re more interesting than I expected,” she says, and Aria laughs, breathy—a laugh that contains a suggestion—a possibility—with plausible deniability—

“I’m pretty great,” she says.

“Bit too showy,” Valencia says. “Always fireworks.”

“People pay attention to fireworks. How do you change things if no-one’s looking, right?”

“Darling,” Valencia says. “When no-one’s looking is the best time to change things.” Her fingers comb through Aria’s loose hair—press against the base of her skull—a world away from Paisley’s easy affection. Slide down to rest on the beating line of her jugular. Oh, Valencia could break Aria’s neck very easily just now. A quick neat piece of violence of the sort Aria—oh, it’s true—doesn’t have the stomach for. But the idea is a hot one. She feels her pulse against Valencia’s fingers. She feels her pulse between her legs. She may one day find that she needs to examine this particular reaction to danger more closely—may find that she has certain tendencies—but not now—not now. She hasn’t yet met that other person—hasn’t yet lain on her back on the floor with blood in her mouth and blood on her clothes, her own blood, almost all of it, and asked—

Now, now, now—now she abandons the dance floor—now she loops her arms around Valencia’s neck in a quiet dark corner, loose and relaxed—and kisses her—sinks into it—into the sharp bite of Valencia’s teeth on her lip—the harshness of Valencia’s nails against her neck. Giggles and then gasps at Valencia’s hand pushing up the tulle layers of her underskirt—pressing mercilessly against her, two fingertips dragging back and forth against her entrance through tights and bodysuit and underwear—the drag of fabric against her making it painfully apparent how damn wet she is. A quick flick of pressure against her clit, just the right side of too harsh. 

Valencia is wearing a black jumpsuit, as inconvenient in the moment as Aria’s own outfit. Closely fitted over her hips and tight at ankles and wrists—off the shoulder and draping loosely over her breasts. Aria gets a leg between her thighs, an insistent twist of her body—falls back against a wall for the second time tonight, and, free from the need to consider balance, pulls Valencia to her and cups her breasts, feels the shape and weight of them—scrapes her nails against the nipples, both at once, biting her lip on laughter and feeling soreness blossom there were Valencia, earlier, left her mark—

Valencia curses—fluent—then broken, as Aria gets her close enough to kiss her neck, gets her hands on Valencia’s ass—

Aria’s hair sticks damply to her forehead—her head falls back as Valencia, through determined contrivance, gets fingers against bare skin—presses her thumb slowly into Aria—fastenings undone and fabric wrenched aside. 

Fuck—

Valencia slips away with a slow smirk and a wink afterwards, gratifyingly disheveled—and then it’s just Aria Joie again—dancing to feel the ache of sex and dancing for the joy of dancing—hopeful and satisfied.


End file.
